


white/black magic

by remyllian_fire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witcher series, M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:23:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remyllian_fire/pseuds/remyllian_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A witcher and a necromancer ought to be more adept at these sorts of adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	white/black magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helahound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helahound/gifts).



> A birthday gift. Love you!

They find their target easily, but not in any condition they were hoping to discover him.

"It's not about finding him imprisoned. That alone, we could work with. No, that's the easy part. He's not sick or bleeding out or unconscious, Stiles, he's _dead_."

Stiles just rolls his eyes at Derek and hustles around making observations that even Derek doesn't see.

"Like that's ever stopped me," Stiles reminds him. "Here, prop him up against that wall. I'll talk to him."

Derek grabs his arm, pulls him away from the man -- _corpse_ \-- before Stiles goes any farther.

"You can't. It's too risky. You know it takes too much energy."

Stiles rolls his eyes again. It strikes a pang of nostalgia to see him casually annoyed with Derek. He shouldn't miss being patronized, but he's missed everything about Stiles.

"Oh, please." Stiles dismisses him, shrugging out of Derek's hold. "We're not in a sacred garden this time. We can sacrifice the energy from grass and moss just outside without consequences, I'm sure."

"It's a risk to _you_."

"The expression on his face softens this time, but his tone is still dismissive when he speaks.

"I'll be tired, but fine. You've only seen me do this once, but I know what I'm doing. Please, Derek. Move him for me?"

In truth, Derek doesn't think he'd ever really deny anything Stiles could ask of him. He doesn't say it out loud, but Stiles is in his head so often that he probably knows.

He watches as Stiles says incantations in a voice that is only partially his own. He's used to that, knows what it sounds like when Stiles calls upon magic outside himself. He's not accustomed, however, to the sounds of the dead speaking amongst the living. The dead man's voice is like a golem's -- grating, booming, and like the clash of rock against blade turned into language.

He wants to shut it out, wants to protect his ears against the sound, but forces himself to listen, focuses on what they need to do to keep moving.

He's always loved watching Stiles like this. His fierce control, his hands and words both steady, despite the chaos in his eyes. Today, though, he trembles, and he looks to Derek with concern in his eyes.

"What's wrong--" he begins to ask, but is cut off when sudden dizziness overtakes him and breath is pulled forcibly from his lungs.

He hears Stiles call out to him, sounding far away, and that is _not_  a good sign. It only lasts a moment, but he can't stay on his feet, feels himself slipping to the cold ground and can't do a thing to stop. He hears Stiles by his side and only then does he realize he's shut his eyes.

"Fuck," Stiles is quietly saying over him. His hands are on Derek's face, pressing too hard to be sweet. " _Fuck._ Please tell me you're not dying. I'll be so angry."

It takes a beat too long for him to open his eyes and pat Stiles' cheek.

"Did you forget to focus on that spell?"

Relief washes over his face for a second but he still flicks Derek on the nose. Then worry lines stitch their way across Stiles' face again.

"I couldn't control the source. I'm sorry, Derek. I should have known you were the only life to draw from."

"I am the lively sort," Derek mutters as he pushes himself back on his feet. He feels sore, but fine. Better than if he had been thrown off his horse. "Did you get what you needed from him?"

"Enough." He doesn't sound certain, but Derek doesn't push. "Let's get you out of here. There's no way I'm trusting you to fight our way out of here." He hesitates for a moment before grinning. "We'll have to teleport."

"I'm so sick of portals," Derek grumbles, but goes to Stiles anyway. "They don't feel right."

"Do you want to die protecting your delicate sensibilities or do you want to get it of here?"

Derek loops his arms around Stiles' waist, as much to connect them as to steady himself. He hates to be ripped forcibly from one place to be shoved into another. He thinks about how horrible it would be to die in this hell hole and holds on a little tighter. 

"This is our least sexy reunion yet," Derek mutters.

Stiles doesn't respond, instead focusing on the spell he's about to cast, but Derek thinks he sees an upwards quirk of his lips. In a flash of lightning-bright light and what feels like a giant picking him up and _throwing_  him, they're gone. When Derek pulls himself up off the ground, he knows in an instant that he's in Stiles' rooms.

"Did you bring everything you own?" Derek asks, surprised by the sheer quantity of _everything_  around him.

"No, I left most of it in the king's personal quarters," Stiles says, voice flat. "What do you think? Of course I travel with everything. I have nowhere else for my things, and I won't limit myself to just what I can carry on my back," Stiles says as he brushes dirt and dust off his clothes. "I need to be prepared for all sorts -- damn it, my tunic's been ripped. This is why I let you do most of the physical fighting."

"You do it so you can stand back and observe."

"You're nice to watch." There's no mistaking the sly look. "I'll need to fix this before we leave again. It's important that it's mended before it gets worse."

He may not be the one who can read minds, but Derek knows how Stiles expresses his worry; almost strictly indirectly, and he can hear the unspoken "rest a moment for your sake" in his voice. He watches closely as Stiles pulls off the tunic. He wants to touch, but makes himself wait.

"Since when do you know how to sew?" He lifts a eyebrow, incredulous.

"You know, Derek, it's been two years since we were last together. I could have learned. I could have learned all sorts of things."

At Derek's continued look of disbelief, Stiles caves.

"I'll enchant a needle."

Derek watches Stiles whisper a spell and flick his wrists, waits for him to finish before he wraps his arms around Stiles from behind him. Derek breathes in deeply at his neck. He kisses a trail from ear to neck to the base of his spine. It feels like a battle won when Stiles relaxes against him and sighs.

"Derek. We should get back on the road. Especially if you're going to insist on going by horseback."

"We'll get there eventually. I've missed you."

He lets his teeth graze lightly over the skin around a freckle. Stiles shudders and turns around so they face each other.

"Well, when you put it that way..."

Stiles is warm and soft and  _eager_  as he kisses Derek. Like he's suddenly fragile. He presses fingers into Derek's sides, shoving fabric out of the way until Derek gets the hint and pulls it over his head. He feels the weight of Stiles watching him as he undresses, but when he's done and looks to Stiles. Stiles, gloriously naked and smiling, but not looking at him. He's looking over Derek's shoulder at --

"No. Please, no. You've kept that thing all these years?"

"Of course. If only for sentimental reasons. Who gets rid of a stuffed unicorn?"

Derek shakes his head. He lowers his face to hide his blush before responding.

"All right. But you should know I still hate that thing."

"We'll work our way back to using its full potential." Stiles pushes at Derek until his back hits something solid. "Just a little bit to remind us of old times."

"I definitely haven't forgotten."

"Then," Stiles begins, running hands down Derek's chest. "You still remember how to throw me up there and have your way with me?"

"One way or another, everything always goes your way," Derek mutters. "I'm recovering, remember? But next time, I'll do whatever you want to with that thing."

The delighted grin on Stiles' face is mischievous. Derek doesn't need to replay his words in his head to realize his mistake.

"Don't make me regret trusting you blindly," he says. He steps forward, guiding their way back to the bed.

"It's too late now. You don't really have a choice, do you?" Stiles pushes him over, swinging one leg over Derek until he's straddling him, holding him still between knees like an illusion of restraint. One neither of them really wishes to break.

"You've never left me any other choice."

Stiles looks at him with a soft, serious look.

"Neither have you."


End file.
